Hidden Potential
by beaute-ephemere
Summary: At first, Tom Riddle and Hermione Granger-Snape didn't know the other existed. But when their paths cross, they realise that together, they have the potential to be much, much more than they could ever have imagined… Tomione. Highschool!AU.


**House : Slytherin**

 **Category : Bonus story**

 **Prompt : What if Hermione was Snape's daughter**

 **Word count : 5128**

 **A/N : To Mari, for all her help :)**

 **A/N #2 : This is a massive, massive,** _ **massive**_ **AU.**

. . . . . . . . . . .

Tom Riddle was the classic high school athlete. But then, he wasn't.

He was more. He was popular, handsome, smart, and the teachers adored him. No one gossiped about him, though that wasn't only due to his popularity: anyone who spoke ill of him became suddenly, mysteriously, and violently sick. They didn't stand a chance. _He always found out._

Tom strolled through the school corridors with self-satisfied smirk. While he craved to control more than Saint Joseph's Christian High School, it was enough… for now. Today the school, tomorrow the world. Hoisting his bag further over his shoulder, Tom hurried to his next class; however, as he rounded the corner he bumped into a girl going in the opposite direction, making her stumble, her bag split, and her books spill _everywhere_.

Internally cursing her clumsiness, Tom cast a surreptitious glance around them, and to his despair he spotted the Headmaster out of the corner of his eye. He'd have to help the girl now, or risk his reputation.

He bent over, now cursing both her and his minions. Caleb, Ethan and Marcus would have cleared the way for him and then he wouldn't have been stuck picking up this bushy-haired, buck-toothed girl's books. "Do you need help?" he inquired, injecting all the false warmth he could into his tone.

"No, and watch where you're going," she snapped, batting away his hand and getting to her feet with a sniff. "I'll have you know these are school property."

Tom's eyes narrowed, his voice becoming dangerously soft. " _Excuse_ me?"

"You are excused. Now, if you'd be so kind as to get out of the way, some of us have classes to attend." With that, she hurried off, her black bushy hair bobbing behind her.

Tom watched her turn the corner, and he unconsciously licked his lips in anticipation. Whoever she was, she'd quickly learn that Tom Riddle was not someone to be trifled with.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione huffed as she entered her class. She knew about Tom Riddle — everyone did — but most of the rumors floating about the school cast him in a far more flattering light. The giggles in the girls' lavatory certainly did not mention that he was a bloody insufferable, arrogant prat. Why, that boy likely thought he ruled the school just because he was smart, athletic, and handsome.

Well, he may have been handsome, but that was beside the point. He was rude, and that was something she, Hermione Granger-Snape, would not tolerate. Someone had to bring him down a notch or two. Or three. _I'd do it myself,_ she thought, _but he's not worth my time_.

Refusing to examine exactly why she didn't want to involve herself with Tom Riddle, Hermione banished the matter from her mind; instead, she focused on her advanced biology lesson and calculating how much glucose the stroma of the chloroplast could produce if the enzyme rubisco was latching onto oxygen in place of carbon dioxide. By throwing herself into her schoolwork, she managed to forget Tom Riddle. He was an annoyance, nothing more, and he wasn't worth her time. There was nothing special about him at all.

How wrong she would be. How very, very wrong.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Later that afternoon, after he'd finished his classes and was enjoying his free block with his 'friends' behind the school, he turned the conversation to the bushy-haired girl he'd collided with. More specifically, who she was, and how he could punish her for her insolence.

However, his followers lacked proper _respect._ When he'd told them he wished to discuss Hermione Granger-Snape, they had only looked at him with puzzled disgust. Then Ethan had grunted, "She's trash, dude, real trash, and her father's a nut-job."

Tom raised an eyebrows. "Ethan, are you insinuating that I am unable to see that myself?"

The boy stilled, panic flitting across his face. "No!" he cried. "Never!"

Tom smiled, his smile sharp and dangerous as a shark's. "Good. I would hate to remind you what happens to disrespectful followers. It can be quite… unpleasant."

Ethan nodded, looking as if he were about to shite himself from fear. Caleb stepped forward, moving between Ethan and Tom. "My Lord," Caleb said, his voice low and respectful. "Why not follow the Snape girl? I can get you a copy of her schedule."

Tom nodded approvingly, and at the gesture his minions relaxed infinitesimally. "Do so, Caleb. And then I shall teach her a lesson she will never forget."

. . . . . . . . . . . .

She'd felt his presence for the past two weeks. Everywhere she went, he was always near. It was bloody infuriating and beginning to freak her out. So of course, like the sane, logical person she was, she decided to confront her stalker behind the school. Alone.

She hurried to the back, then ducked behind a dumpster, lying in wait for him. She could hear him approaching, hear his feet hitting the cobblestones, and when his footsteps ceased, she stepped out and snapped, "Why are you following me?"

It was Riddle standing there in the alleyway, and the sight surprised her, though she shoved away the feeling. She was cool and calm. She was in control.

Riddle ignored her, choosing instead to lounge against the wall and inspecting his nails. Finally, he raised his gaze. "No good reason, Granger-Snape. No good reason at all."

She scoffed. "Then stop stalking me, Riddle, if you have no reason."

"I wasn't stalking you," Riddle answered, fixing her with his powerful stare. "And I have a reason. It's just not good. I wanted to get you alone."

The words sent a chill down Hermione's spine. She'd given him the very thing he'd been looking for — they were completely alone. No one would hear her if she screamed.

"Riddle, what do you want?" she asked, her voice steady despite her sudden nervousness.

Riddle peeled himself off the wall and stalked towards her, still holding her gaze with his black, burning eyes. "Nothing much," he purred, pushing a strand of her hair back. "Just your… cooperation." Then he shut his eyes tight and Hermione felt the air around her grow noticeably colder, as if he were throwing up some invisible wall between them and the outside, and then he advanced on her.

She cowered away from him, but there wasn't anywhere she could run, and he was definitely faster than her; she ended up pinned against the wall, his hand resting on her temple. He scowled down at her, hissed something incomprehensible, and then a crippling pain lanced through her.

Hermione fell to her knees screaming bloody murder— after what felt like an eternity, it finally stopped and she staggered to her feet, shaking.

But when Tom pressed his hand to her forehead again, already knowing what would happen, she swatted his hand away, filled with relentless, reckless anger, and suddenly felt an unknown force wash over her. It made her feel confident, brave, strong and… powerful.

It was her turn.

She reached up and ran her hand ever so lightly along Riddle's brow, like an avenging goddess come to claim her own. Then her expression darkened. He'd hurt her. And he would pay. Her eyes narrowed and she let the anger swell through her veins sing its seductive siren-song of revenge. Then, a slight smile tugging at her lips, she gave into her blood's calling.

"Suffer," she whispered. A bolt of energy flew from her fingertips and into Riddle, and she willed it to hurt him, to make him _scream_ , just as he had done to her.

He writhed as if he were being engulfed in flames, twisting and contorting himself, mouth open in a noiseless scream. His attempts to fight back were futile; she had taken him by surprise, and she was far too strong for him to stop her now.

After he'd collapsed into a heap at her feet, she crouched to his level. This time, when she placed a hand on his jugular, where life pulsed steady and delicate, he flinched away from her touch. Hermione grinned, exultant. Then she bound up her strange power which she'd never felt before which coursed through her body and thrust it into Riddle's body again with the desire to hurt him as he'd hurt her.

He thrashed beneath her touch; then, with a sudden groan, his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed into a boneless heap.

Hermione looked down at his still-twitching, unconscious body. Then she rose and walked away, the power still coursing through her, leaving her heady and somewhat detached from the cruelty she'd just committed.

It wasn't until later that night that the full importance of what she'd done sunk in and she began to cry.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When Tom awoke, it was to a pounding headache. He struggled to his feet and somehow managed to drag himself into a bathroom stall before anyone saw him. The moment he was hidden, he began to throw up, still shaking from the pain. Then he sunk to the ground, and drifted into unconsciousness once again.

When he came to an hour or so later, his head had cleared, if only slightly. Ignoring the protests his muscles made at his every move, he made his way to the sink to splash some water on his face; however, before he could, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and the sight made him take a step back.

He looked ghastly. His skin was a pale, sickly white, and there were deep, dark circles under his eyes. When he leant forward to further inspect himself in the mirror, he noted the blood dripping from his nose had stained his blazer.

Shuddering at his uncharacteristic appearance, he washed the blood off and attempted to comb his hair into place, but to little avail. Realising he still looked terrible, he decided his only option was to leave, despite the fact Hermione would certainly notice and he would effectively being admitting defeat.

 _Oh, well,_ he thought to himself, _she may have won the battle, but she_ _ **will**_ _lose the war._

The next day, Tom arrived to school, his usual perfect self on the surface. On the inside, however, he was already hatching a plan. A plan to take down Hermione Granger-Snape. First, he would have to get to know his opponent. He still had no idea how she had manage to attack him. No one else had ever been able to defend themselves, and telepathic torture was _his_ thing. Unless… No. It couldn't be. _He_ was special. _He_ was powerful. _He_ was unique.

She couldn't be like him. She just couldn't be.

The thought that there were more like him haunted Tom, and so he resolved to ask the girl how she'd done it.

Politely, of course. No need for any further 'incidents'.

After asking his minions for her schedule, Tom placed himself in her path. His teacher let him out of class early — anything for Tom Riddle, after all — and so when the bell rang, he was waiting.

And he waited. And waited. Hermione Granger-Snape seemed content to stay back with her professor, even though what seemed like the entire class had already left.

She bustled out of her class, her hair in a disarray and a ratty old bag thrown over her shoulder, but Tom now knew better than to judge her on her appearance. Within that slender frame resided a power which just might equal his, and he wouldn't make the mistake of underestimating her again. So as she walked to her next class, he matched her pace, slipped his hand into hers and whispered, "Snape."

She tried to jerk away from him, but he held on tight. While her magical strength may have been the equivalent to his, her physical strength certainly wasn't. "What do you want?" she snapped.

"Nothing but answers," Tom purred, steering her into an empty corridor where only a school camera watched over them with its unblinking gaze. "Answers you're going to give me."

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The insufferable clod wanted _answers_. From _her_. She didn't even know what she'd done yesterday, didn't know if she could do it again — but she did know that she'd beat him. And he still bore the marks from it.

She held her head high. "I won't give you anything, Riddle, unless you get on your knees and beg for it."

Riddle smirked, his dark eyes glinting as he looked down on her. "Now now, Snape, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Surely asking politely would suffice?"

She glared at him, yanking her arm from his. "I'd think that after yesterday, you'd be afraid to _look_ at me, Riddle, let alone _speak_ to me."

He scowled. "You took me by surprise, you witch. Hardly fair."

"And you didn't? All the same, I won. Why don't you tell _me_ what happened yesterday?"

For some reason, Riddle froze. "You… don't know?" he asked slowly.

It was Hermione's turn to scowl. "Why should I know?" she cried, glaring up at him. "What happened yesterday was crazy. It was like magic."

Tom stilled. "Magic." he said the word slowly, as if tasting it on his tongue. "Interesting choice of words, Snape."

"Like I said, I was confused," Hermione muttered. "No need to make fun of me, Riddle."

"Please, call me Tom," he replied, smiling down at her. For some reason, that smile unsettled her more than anything else she'd seen from the boy before, for the smile was full of dark, unspoken promises. She'd do anything for that smile. He offered her his arm, and bemused, Hermione took it.

"If I'm to call you Tom," she said lightly, "then I insist you call me Hermione."

He smiled again at her. "Hermione," he said slowly, "I believe this is the beginning of a wonderful friendship."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The day passed wonderfully for Hermione. Latched onto Tom Riddle's arm, people opened doors for her and sat next to her in class, desperate for the gossip. They all wanted to know why _he_ was interested in _her._ In response to their question, Hermione just shrugged. To be honest, she wasn't sure herself.

At the end of the afternoon, Tom was waiting for Hermione outside her classroom. Upon seeing her, he smiled, looping his arm through hers and walking her down the corridor. When they reached the end of it, he stopped. "So, when are you free?" he enquired. "I was thinking we should try and practice our magic at least three times a week, if possible more."

Hermione hesitated. "Uh, I can't make Fridays or Mond— Wait! Did you say magic?" Then, suddenly realizing that that was probably the reason he was talking to her at all, she panicked. "I mean, I've never even done anything like that before— I might not even be magical at all— it might have been a fluke and I definitely wouldn't be able to do it on purpose like in practice— you should find someone else, I'm sure any girl would be happy to help—"

Smirking, Tom pushed her hair behind her ears and bent down, silencing her with a kiss. When he drew back, she was shocked silent. "You are the _only_ one, sweetheart," he murmured.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

After nearly a month of daily practicing magic with Tom, Hermione was beginning to understand the strange power that ran rampant through her blood. She was beginning to feel more confident both in herself and her abilities, and now she knew why Tom had insisted they were equals. Why Tom was dating her. Yes, there was some physical attraction on both of their parts, but more importantly, they were equals in every sense: brains, power and wit.

One day, after a particularly grueling practice in which Hermione had fallen and hit her head hard, Tom had insisted on walking her home. She had let him, and when he hesitated at her door, she beckoned him in. Her father wasn't home yet, but they'd be fine. If Tom decided to try anything, well, it had already been proven that she was his match. They'd probably level the house if they fought, but, well, the house would just be a casualty.

She took him into the living room before collapsing onto the couch. Tom stood there looking obviously discomfited, and so Hermione took pity on him. "Come take a seat," she said, patting the cushion beside her.

Tom hesitantly did so, and then Hermione rested her head on his shoulder. It was peaceful, and he was just starting to relax when her father suddenly walked in unannounced, blanched, then snapped, "Hermione, what are you doing with a _boy_ in the house? I thought you could control your baser teenage urges!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Hermione's father's words were unacceptable. They were disrespectful to his girlfriend, and by association, him. Scowling at the man's insinuations, Tom tried to skim the man's thoughts. From how she'd spoke of him, Hermione cared for her father, and he'd hate to brain-damage him… yet. He'd try persuasion first.

But despite his best efforts, it was as if there were an impenetrable brick wall blocking his advances. He'd never encountered such an obstruction before, and it made him wonder if the man was truly insane as people said… and then he realised something which chilled him to the bone.

He and Hermione weren't alone. They weren't the only magical people. Normal people couldn't block his mind-reading. The thought irritated him, but he pushed it away for the time being, preferring to focus on his girlfriend's mysterious father. "Mr. Snape?" Tom asked, a mask of politeness as he redoubled his efforts to burrow into the man's mind. He _would_ know if there were more like him and Hermione. Whether he wanted to or not, this man _would_ let him into his mind. He rammed himself against the brick wall, taking pleasure in watching the man's sudden pained expression. "Mr. Snape, are you quite alright?"

"Get. Out. Of. My. Head." Hermione's father growled, glaring at Tom.

"My apologies," Tom replied, holding the man's gaze, his voice dangerously quiet. "I was quite rude. Though I don't believe hiding your daughter's identity from her could be considered polite in _any_ social circle."

"I did not—!" Snape barked, his eyes flashing. "If you are insinuating that she is not my daughter, you will leave this house immediately!"

Tom smirked. "I wasn't referring to that," he said. "And I think we are both aware of that. I was referring to something much more important. Her magic. You've hidden her magic from her." With that ringing accusation, he took a step closer to the man, clearly trying to intimidate him. Given the murderous glint in his eyes, only a fool would dare refuse him… but it seemed Hermione's father was a fool. Snape only glared at him, a stubborn, contrary set to his jaw.

Tom growled, stepping even further into the man's space, wordlessly daring him to act. _No one_ hid anything from him or Hermione. No one. Even her father. Snape would pay for this…

"Tom!" Hermione said in undertone, laying a hand on his arm. "Please."

Tom blinked, then turned to face her. She nodded at her father, and Tom slowly stepped away from the man. Some battles weren't his to fight. If his girlfriend wished to confront her father herself, he would allow it. After all, she wouldn't be half as much interesting if she didn't have claws of her own.

Hermione closed the distance between her and her father, then looked up at the man. "D-Dad?" she asked, a quiver in her voice. "You— you knew?"

The tendons in Snape's necks stood out. "I didn't have a choice," he ground out. "Your mother was a muggle, and I had to protect you—"

"By lying to me?" Hermione interrupted, her eyes unnaturally bright as she confronted her father. "By hiding who I really am?"

"Enough, Hermione!" her father shouted.

Hermione flinched, but Tom moved to her side. _I'm here for you_ , he thought, hoping his silent presence supported her. And it did. She took a deep, shuddering breath, then said, "I need answers, Dad!"

"I can't," he snapped. "It will put you in danger. Don't ask."

"But I have a right to know," Hermione insisted. "Are there others? How many? Tens? Hundreds? Thousands?"

Tom glared at the man as well, and under their combined pressure, Snape faltered. "I'll tell you," he sighed. "There are millions like us."

Hermione grinned, smug as the cat that got the cream, and Tom brushed back an errant curl which had escaped her ponytail while she'd been shouting at her father. Then, he took her arm. "Shall we discuss this in the living room?" he asked, smooth and suave as ever.

Snape scowled at him, no doubt irritated by his display of affection towards his daughter. But Hermione smiled up at him. "Sounds wonderful. Dad, could you put some tea on? This could take some time, and I'd hate to send Tom home without feeding him. He's too thin for his own good."

Snape gritted his teeth, but he said nothing; instead, he swept from the room, leaving Hermione and Tom to follow. They sat down at the worn table, then Snape sat across from them. "What questions do you have?" he asked.

Hermione immediately began to ask questions, and Tom let her do so, asking a few of his own from time to time. She wanted to know how the magical world worked. She wanted to know about their schools, their banks, their shops and their governments. The most important question, however, was left unvoiced.

 _Why don't they want us to know?_

When they finally finished, it was well past midnight, and Hermione yawned and excused herself saying she needed to go to bed. Both Snape and Tom watched he go up the stairs. When they were finally alone, Snape drew closer to Tom.

"If she ends up hurt," he threatened, "I will kill you, boy."

Tom met the man's gaze, his own cold and calculating. "How?" he enquired politely. "I promise you, I'm no easy target. "

Snape raised an eyebrow. "While that may be true, I have been schooled in my magic. I can bottle luck and stopper death, boy. You cannot compare."

With that Snape swept out of the room and left Tom just standing there in the kitchen. After the threat sunk in, Tom showed himself out of the house, resolving to speak to Hermione privately the next day at school.

. . . . . . . . . . .

The next morning, Tom waited outside Hermione's linear algebra classroom, hoping to catch her alone for a few moments. When she saw him, her face broke into a smile and she pecked him on the cheek.

"Oh, Tom! I'm so glad everything worked out between you and my father! I just knew it would!"

Not wanting to rain on her parade, Tom resolved to tell her about her father's threats later, instead savoring the few moments he had with his girlfriend before the bell rang and they were once again separated.

However, just as he was bending down to kiss Hermione, he heard a distinct voice behind him. "There they are, boss. The half-bloods."

Neither Tom nor Hermione had time to comprehend the slur, let alone act, before they were shoved into an empty classroom.

"Wha-What do you think you're doing?" Hermione demanded, struggling to escape their grasp.

The aurors laughed and released the pair, who backed away until they could go no further. The tallest of the wizards spoke first, his voice deep and gravelly. "It's easier if you don't fight it, sweetheart."

"What are you going to do to us," Tom growled, eyes narrowed as he stepped in front of Hermione in a futile attempt to shield her.

The smaller man laughed. "Sorry, boy, but it'd be a waste of breath to tell you. You'd forget anyways." He turned to face his partner. "Memory charm?"

The tall man's mouth curled into a sneer as he nodded slowly. Then, the pair levelled two small sticks of wood at Tom and Hermione, simultaneously yelling "Obliviate!"

Tom sent out a pulse of magic which deflected the spell. "Look, love. They actually have to say their spells out loud. Like small children learning to read. Adorable," Tom drawled.

Hermione's laughter at Tom's comment infuriated the two men, who flushed a deep shade of red. "We'll teach you to respect your superiors, muggle-spawn," the shorter one snapped.

"Oh, trust me. I respect my superiors," Hermione muttered before firing off a curse that left the short wizard groaning in pain.

Tom only spared a glance to make sure she was able to hold her own before stalking toward the taller man, his power thrumming through his body. He rammed into the man's mind with the delicacy of a bull in a china shop, utterly decimating his defenses and leaving him screaming in pain.

Hermione's opponent was giving the duel everything he had, firing curse after curse at her. She deflected each one, concentrating intently. Suddenly, he stepped forward, knocking her to the ground and breaking her focus. He quickly pointed his wand at her, whispering "Say goodnight, little girl."

Tom turned around and he _knew_ she wouldn't be able to dodge the spell. He _knew_ it was too late to stop the man. The beam of light was already speeding toward her. There was only one way to save her…

Tom dove in front of her, taking the brunt of the curse. It felt as if he were being flayed alive, the flesh hanging from his body in strips, and then someone had poured salt over his wounds… screaming, he sunk to the ground next to Hermione, blood pouring from countless gashes. In his last moment, he sent a desperate pulse of magic toward the wizard, seeing the man crumple to the ground. Hermione would be safe now.

Then the world went black.

. . . . . . . . . .

Snape was enjoying puttering around in his cellar. It had been hard to give up magic when Hermione was born; back then, he'd still practiced and made little surprises for his wife.

Lysandra. He'd loved Lysandra beyond words. And when the wizarding police had come in and arrested them, tossing them in a cell, and he'd been forced to watch her, still weak from childbirth, succumb to the Dementors' auras, he'd emerged a changed man. Hermione wouldn't grow up in the magical world. He'd lost his wife to it; he wouldn't also lose his daughter too.

Especially when Lysandra's dying wish was for him to raise Hermione well. Had he stayed in the Wizarding World, their daughter would certainly have been sneered at. Half-bloods were second-class citizens, only better than the rare muggle-born that found their way into the Wizarding World, and he would not allow anyone to treat Hermione so badly. It had been bad enough that he himself had been bullied by the Potter boy. He wouldn't allow the latest Potter to sneer at his daughter, nor force her to suck up to the Malfoy scion just to survive Hogwarts.

Life was difficult for half-bloods, and Snape had every intention of smoothing Hermione's way. Even if it meant raising her a muggle. He would _not_ allow her to her run off with that Riddle boy who would lead her into Wizarding Britain.

But his resolve was tested when Hermione burst into the cellar.

"Dad!" she cried, panicked. "Dad! Tom— Tom— he's hurt real-really badly he's going to die— please, please, please come— I don't know what to do— someone with magic came to the school and— and— and—"

Snape's blood ran cold. There had been an Auror at the school. Hermione had been in danger. They were leaving immediately. He grabbed her arm. "We're going," he said brusquely, pulling out the emergency-bag he'd set aside for such occasions. "Come on."

"Where?" Hermione asked, eyes wide.

"Far away," he answered, pulling her towards the door.

"No!" she cried, wrenching her arm from his. "We've got to help Tom! Please, Dad, I— I love him!"

Snape stilled. She… she loved him. He spun to face her. "Are you certain?"

She nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Please, Dad, please, save him. Please," she whispered in a broken voice.

She loved him. Just as Lysandra had loved him. His mind suddenly made up, he ran to where he kept his emergency store of potions, stockpiled for grievous injuries, grabbed them, then took out his wand. Sparks flared from its end as he held it for the first time in _years_ , and a warm, comfortable feeling ran through him. He had regained an old friend.

"Grab my hand," he ordered, and Hermione did so. Then he focused. Destination. The school, where Tom lay dying. Determination. For his daughter's sake, Tom would live. Deliberation. He would do everything he could, even using magic again, to ensure it. His daughter would have a chance for the happiness he was denied.

When he arrived, Tom was bleeding out on the floor. His skin was a pale, sickly grey-ish white and for a second Snape thought he was too late— and then he saw the slight rise and fall or the boy's chest.

Hermione fell to her knees beside her boyfriend, murmuring comforting words, but Severus was already pacing around the boy casting healing spells and forced vial after vial of blood-replenishing potion down the boy's throat.

Finally, Tom coughed and sat up. Snape sighed in relief; then, after allowing his daughter to hug his patient, he escorted the teenagers back to his kitchen, where he made tea without Hermione instructing him to, a warm, proud feeling coursing through him. He'd just saved his future son-in-law from death. All in a good day's work.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Hours later, Tom and Hermione sat together on the couch, her head on his shoulder, their fingers intertwined, just enjoying the peace and quiet. Not too long ago, they'd thought they'd lost one another, but they hadn't, and now they were savoring the time they had together.

Hermione was the first to break that silence. "Tom, they were going to erase our memories… weren't they?" she whispered, placing a hand on his chest.

"Or worse," he said darkly, putting an arm around her waist and holding her closer to him. "They must have found out that we'd discovered our powers."

Hermione frowned. "They only see the danger in our powers, not the potential. It's not fair. It's sickening."

"No one said life was fair, darling." She opened her mouth to protest but he put a finger up to silence her. "Maybe, though, it's time someone gave those entitled bastards a taste of their own medicine."

Slowly, Hermione Granger-Snape's mouth curled into a smile. "It's time to make life unfair in our favor."


End file.
